


Racing the Sun

by techno4tomcats



Category: Planes (Movies)
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotionally constipated aircraft, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, PTSD, Sentient Anthromorphic Aircraft, Uncle Cabbie, bird metaphors, colourful G rated metaphors, dad feels, dusty has terrible coping mechanisms, heavy italic useage, team born not built, the Smokejumpers (tm), when sad apply Planes to the area
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-17
Updated: 2019-04-13
Packaged: 2019-08-03 01:21:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,712
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16316405
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/techno4tomcats/pseuds/techno4tomcats
Summary: Dusty had somehow convinced himself that it wasn’t that bad; compared to Skipper, Blade, Cabbie, his problems seemed....small.Grief is a heavy burden on one so young.





	1. What You See

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Imposter syndrome + survivors guilt = a whole airfield of hang ups.
> 
> Story title is based off a game of the same name. Where you race against time, gravity and the light of the setting sun.
> 
> You will crash. 
> 
> But how and when is up to you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I loved the idea that Dusty was a teeny teen plane vs an adult as postulated by Skittlesfairy here on Ao3. It makes so much sense, from a storytelling point of view. Any (sane) adult wouldn’t try to juggle motorsports and firefighting or tbh, try to learn how to firefight while suffering from the equivalent of a heart infarction after a triple bypass. This has been rolling about in my head for a while.
> 
> Also, I love Cabbie and I crave dad!feelings and found family tropes with Dusty.

Dusty half wonders if he’s diamagnetic, because he attracts trouble like nothing else.

* * *

Dusty had asked himself that question once before, while he’d been hanging suspended from the belly of a SeaHawk after being fished out of the Pacific Ocean. Mostly wondering how he’d have fared if his escorts could swim and cut through a storm like parting the waters on a ships bow. He was sure he’d read once that some F series jets could _swim_ as if flying through the air, back when his prop had only started growing in. Back, _way back when;_ he had little else to worry about except how he’d go about sneaking off when he was due for a nap or thinking about what clouds were made of. Little!Dusty had been so sure they were made of wool, the really soft stuff that came from fluffy petrorabbits. 

Younger Dusty would be so sad to know that clouds were water and that if they went fast enough, they could swat you right out of the air. That they certainly weren’t soft or fluffy enough to break a planes fall if their prop failed. 

He wondered if he’d be in the same situation if _he_ could swim. Or at the very least, had an engine that wasn’t so reliant on a air/fuel mix. 

Probably. 

Spite, max torque and horsepower could only get you so far in a hurricane.

It was probably fanciful to think about the what if’s of divergent frame builds but it was a nice, distracting train of thought from being solidly wrecked and the un- _makerly_ amount of pain he was in. He was probably delirious as well, since now he was imagining riding on the back of a Tomcat on a calm blue ocean, with a rainbow overhead. Yeah, that was stretching his already fatigued suspense of disbelief.

Dusty passed out shortly after, dreaming of a reality not so bound by make and model.

* * *

With dreams full of racing and speed; the sheer rush of flying, those fragmented thoughts didn’t resurface again for a while. Joy, then grief took over; his gearbox was crumbling inside of him, hot and tight with pain. A prop driven aircraft couldn’t fly without one and it ached deep within him to know the dream that he’d fought for, nearly died for and earned with every torque he could muster, was now _gone_. Just like that. 

Definitely feeling the make and model argument at that point. Leadbottoms words cut deep and Skipper...

Skipper had enough to handle without carrying any of Dusty’s issues. The Corsair had only _just_ flying again! A mechanical issue just seemed trite compared to the yawning chasm of fifty years of pain. It felt petty and stupid and _childish_ to even think that he was suffering a quart of what Skipper had.

Chug just wouldn’t understand and Dottie....well part of it was avoiding the ‘limits’ lecture, Dusty wasn’t entirely confident he _could_ hold his tongue if it came down to a fight and part of it was not wanting to heap more guilt on her. The little blue tug had been so upset when she broke the news to Dusty. 

Not talking about it had made Dusty bitter and impulsive, which in hindsight was a terrible mix when combined with fire fighting certification. It made him selfish too, something he’d long since tried to quell, ever since he’d been on his own, far too long ago when he was far too young. Fate and Blade had given him a swift, firm kick up the aft in the Deerehorn Mine. Then for one brief moment; he felt that feeling of rush and speed and _joy_ as he dropped on target and Winnie and Harvey fled to safety and Blade offered the highest token of respect for his effort.

Then of course his gear box failed in a spectacular fashion and he crashed into the dark. This time not surrounded by cold, pressing water but hot and dry air. Being able to swim wouldn’t make a drop of difference here, but maybe if he’d had jet engines...

No, he probably would have exploded before then. Probably why there was no Tomcats or Eagles in the fire service. Would be a lot easier if they’d had some of those kind of eyes in the sky and that speed behind them. Then Blade...he might not have...

_Crud._

Before he passed out, this time he knew he was not limited by make or model, only that he was bound by the earth and the sky.

* * *

Well, maybe aquatic fighter jets and tanker Eagles wasn’t that nonsensical, if the fact that Maru, _(maker bless that cantankerous tug)_ had replaced his un-replaceable gearbox. Plus the whole, saving him from the brink of death and _maker_ knows what kind of internal injuries he had from a gearbox shattering mid flight and then plowing into a still burning forest.

Hours after he’d woken up to a chorus of ‘congratulations’ (and one conga rat! From Drip) for passing certification and surviving, Dusty found himself on the apron of the bases runaway, pondering the rich red and pinks of the sunset. 

How did that saying go? ‘Red night, sailors delight?’ Did that also apply to exhausted fire fighters?

Maybe. And Dusty was mentally shattered. His life had turned upside down and did a barrel roll within the space of, what felt like to him, mere minutes. It was a lot to take in. And yet, he was loathe to bring it up with Blade or even Maru. Both had worked _so hard_ to keep him ticking over....mulling over his problems with them seemed almost....insulting. Blade had gotten hurt on his account because he was too busy thinking about _his_ problems and not anyone else’s. Dusty shivered at the thought of just how _badly_ the mine incident could have gotten. How bad it had been. His prop twirled a quarter turn as he sniffled, trying to stifle tears.

Really, he should just be grateful he was whole again. Even if with every passing moment he’d been suspended from the trees, he’d felt so alone and scared. _He.._

_He missed his sire. He missed his dam. He missed having someone tell him it would be alright._

Maybe that’s what being an adult was about. Having no one to tell him it was okay to be scared, hurt. Or to make mistakes or to be a bit greedy and want, with all his core, someone to hold him tight.

He’d just have to settle for telling himself it had worked out alright, that just like before, all the pieces fell in place and he got what he’d earned. 

That or it was sheer, cosmic luck. Maybe he’d borrowed a few of those fabled nine lives that ‘cat designated vehicles had.

* * *

“Pretty sure you’re too skinny to be a bobcat and too small to be jumping off aircraft carriers.”

Cabbie was pretty certain Dusty must of had his canopy in the clouds, given he damn near vertically took off when he spoke up. Not like he was built for sneaking. He’d noticed their SEAT staring off into the sunset and wanted to have a few words with him. Didn’t expect to startle the light plane into engine failure (and wouldn’t Maru just _love_ that) but the smaller plane settled down quickly, somewhat sheepish he’d been musing out loud. Dusty let out a snort at the last comment and Cabbie inclined his head in confusion. Dusty chose to elaborate on what was so amusing.

“Funny you should say that. I’ve been catapulted off a runway. Twice.”

Pretty sure his eyebrow panes couldn’t raise any higher off his brow. Voice thick with amused doubt;

“You’re joking.”

“Nope.”

“ _Right._ ”

“100% honest, Wrenches honour.” A statement Dusty emphasised with a wiggle of his nose, the insignia still tacky from being reapplied.

Cabbie blinked, opened his mouth, closed it, then tried again after a minute. _Dang_. Yep, pegged the kid completely wrong from first impressions. Planes just didn’t go flying around with squadron markings for the hell of it. If he’d proven himself to serving navy jets then this old war plane could surely switch gears a little.

“Surprised you didn’t get flung into next week, considering you’re made of tinfoil. Explains a fair bit, actually.”

Did it ever. Up to and including what had landed Dusty in a five day coma to begin with. That mix of fortitude, thirst for danger and consideration for ones fellow vehicle, beyond their own needs and wants. _'Orta Recens Quam Pura Nites'_. Not what he’d expected from what he assumed to be a puffed up racer and had mostly ignored in the days leading up to the firestorm.

Yeah, he was going to have to fix that. Especially if the kid planned on coming back next season. Cabbie hoped he would. The light plane was damned quick in both flight and picking up the fundamentals, he’d found that out after Maru put him on ‘Ranger minding’ duty. Their Air Chief did just have sections of his rotor assembly replaced as well as recovering from being half-broiled in an abandoned mine. Sense of responsibility or no, the helitanker was in no state to go spinning his rotors up, outside of a catastrophic emergency. No, putting out the smouldering remains of the Piston Peak fire was _not_ one, so the pair of them started on drafting up the exhaustingly daunting incident report they’d need to send in to the TMST. 

Something else niggled at him, like a warm breeze along his wings. The feeling passed, displaced by the cooling air of twilight. The soft, warm light seemed to draw out the dings and scars that hadn’t been fully buffed out of the small plane. It also, just barely showed off the roundness of juvenile plating that hadn’t quite hardened in some places.

It wasn’t the first time Cabbie had wondered how young their part time SEAT was. When Dusty had come to the Piston Peak Air Attack base to be certified, a week and a lifetime ago, Cabbie had eyed the plane warily, keen eyes noticing the little tell-tale signs of a fixed wing frame that wasn’t quite done filling out. He’d pretty much chosen to ignore the light plane, and ignore the guilty little twist in his wing struts that urged him to voice his concerns. He was too old and not within his direct scope of responsibility. That, at least was how he justified it to himself, reasoning that there was little point getting to know the light plane, he’d be gone soon enough, if he even lasted the training.

Was too _young_ to be fighting fires; one look at a wildfire and he’d turn tail. Wouldn’t be the first, or last recruit to do so.

He’d assumed Blade noticed. Assumed anyone had known and assumed, _perhaps worst of all_ , that Dusty would fail, give up and go home. Where he belonged, not at the front line of the worst fire Piston Peak had in decades.

In hindsight, he’d been a right aft about the whole situation, as ugly as it had gotten. Luck and skill in equal measure at least ensured that there was no fatalities during the Piston Peak fire, even if Dusty had tried his damnedest to nose-dive his way onto the Wall.

He had felt even worse after Blade let it slip about the kid’s gearbox, when everything clicked neatly into place. Dusty had been grieving before he’d crashed. He’d been _hurting_ , both in frame and mind. That anger and defiance, trying to mask just how hurt and lost he was, not even two decades into his life, Cabbie guessed.

That realisation chewed on his core and dredged up a lifetimes worth of memories, back when good, young planes would go to war, in bodies not quite done growing and he’d never stopped to ask why it was the younglings stepping up to fight. 

There was only so much one could do, in the face of so much unfairness and that was to balance the scales a bit more in kindnesses favour.

“You wanna share what’s rattling around your mind? I’m happy to listen.” 

* * *

Dusty had a thoughtful look on his face, before quietly speaking.

“Can...can I ask you a question, Cabbie?”

“Sure.”

“Have you...I mean...”

Dusty paused, as if trying to gather his words while trying to avoid rolling right onto a landmine. Cabbie didn’t try to interrupt, instead settling down on his landing gear and waited for the smaller plane to continue.

“You’ve..worked in ...ah...dangerous situations most of your life. How....do you move on from a close call?”

Huh, well that was one way to ask him about his USAF career. He didn’t like talking about it but there were times where it gave him an insight few civilian aircraft had. The hardest part of that question was the unsatisfying answer.

“There’s no one solid answer. And mostly it’s time. Mortality isn’t an easy thing to take in, even for older vehicles.”

Subtle, McHale. _Subtle_.

Dusty either ignored the hook or refused to be baited since he chose not to comment on that last part.

“I mean...this isn’t my first crash but the first seemed so much easier, like it was just an obstacle to fly over but this...this is like everything’s _changed_ and I don’t know pitch from yaw anymore. And...I just...I don’t...”

Wait _what_.

Cabbie’s train of thought ground to a halt at the first part of that and promptly derailed. A heavy sense of concern settled in his fuel tanks. _Sweet Mercedes_ , this was a bigger problem than he thought. The moment to act was gone as soon as it appeared, what with both Blade and Maru calling out for Dusty, and the light plane looked at Cabbie, a small huff signalling his resignation before shooting the cargo plane a wane smile and heading back towards the cluster of hangars.

 _Damn_.

Cabbie let out a disappointed sigh of his own.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Given the...lack of specific terminology or solid series ‘bible’ I decided to do what a lot of good folk have done and yank some Transformers terminology regarding parents/animals and organic analogs (Except I switched out carrier for dam because carrier would get kind of muddled with aircraft carrier, imo)
> 
> Sire = dad. Dam= Mum. Bitlet= itty bitty teeny weeny plane omg can you imagine how cute that would be ok.
> 
> It was _supposed_ to be fluff while I hashed out the big sads in my other fanfic. I think I’m incapable of fluff at this point.
> 
> ('Orta Recens Quam Pura Nites' is the motto of the NSWFRS. I did some volunteer work years ago and I’m thinking about signing up for admin duties once my health stabilises)
> 
> I got hooked again on this franchise after marathoning it with viper_fox if anyone who’s subscribed to me is wondering why on earth I’m posting Disney fic at the same time as Deus Ex.  
>    
> I’m not 100% certain on where this will go eventually. Originally this was going to be a liminal space, spooky were-wolf que story involving F-14 tomcats and the Piston Peak crew but then feelings happened and I dropped the ‘why do the planes have such big teeth’ plot point.


	2. It’s what you do

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Coffee has and always will be a polarised issue, in my opinion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How many bird references can I cram into this thing? It’s mostly angst flavoured fluff down here, with some vague references to death in discussing grief.

Cabbie hadn’t had much chance to dwell on things for the next few days; first he’d been assisting Patch with co-ordinating what felt like half of CalFires air tankers over his radio setup and he’d been supporting Dynamite and the rest of the jump crew while they shifted burnt out debris and charred out trunks of trees, prepping the land so it could be re-seeded before winter set in. He was also enjoying being in the air, now free of embers and smoke. 

Strictly speaking, he could have just returned to base and picked up the team at the lodge later. But he’d gotten cabin fever after a week being on secondary dispatch duty and wasn’t objecting to flying around on the park’s dime. It also let him keep an eye out for any widow makers or dangerous dips in the terrain while Blade and Windlifter worked to the north of his location.  
Dusty was still medically grounded, since Maru wasn’t taking any chances. A crash on top _and_ caused by a chronic injury was no trivial matter.

‘Sides, the kid was too exhausted to even fathom flying. 

As natural as it was for anyone with wings, it took energy and focus to defy gravity and not fly into a cliff.

They’d all had enough close calls to make up the entire fire season, even if Blackout had made a crack about Cabbie doubling as a whirly-bird and hovering so much. Lucky he really.... _really_ liked the little dirt darts. _Whirly-bird, his two tailed aft_. He’d like to see a helicopter just try to haul that lot around. Windlifters channel clicked once, as if to say he was not going to dignify that statement with a verbal response but letting everyone know he’d remember that for next time.

Clearly, he was getting preoccupied and letting his gruff facade drop if they were sassing him over the comms. Couldn’t be a complete pushover, not when a good 2/3ds of the Jump team he was responsible for were prone to pranking and could smell a unsuspecting target from a mile away. 

Last time he’d done that had been a spectacle and he _still_ couldn’t figure out how to get the glitter slime off the ceiling of his hangar. So now, every so often he’d find himself glaring at the discoloured spot and wondering how he’d ended up with a life like this and how he wouldn’t trade it for all the coffee in Brazil.

* * *

Cabbie missed his opportunity to follow up on what Dusty had said once again; Cabbie had been sawing logs when the small plane was cleared for flight in the early hours of the morning and the whirlwind of the certification ceremony left no room for this kind of heavy discussion. 

Then the Corn Festival had happened and _boy_ , did he get a swift education on the sheer amount of things you could do with an ear of corn. It was a blur of a week, between flying across several states and getting back into the swing of life at Piston Peak, they’d just been no ‘good’ time. He’d have to make it, the cargo plane supposed.

Cabbie sighed to himself, annoyed he was being such a broody Galliforme about the whole thing. The ‘uncle’ title was really going to stick at this point. So long as the Smokejumpers didn’t get the idea to upgrade that to ‘Grunkle.’ He may be pushing nearly seventy, but he wasn’t _that_ decrepit.

Yet. The instant he admitted out loud that he _liked_ herding around the younger members of Air Attack base, he’d officially declare himself certifiable.

“I’m getting to be a noisy snoop in my old age.”

Unfortunately he’d uttered that aloud, outside of the maintenance bay, where Maru could hear him. The purple tug smirked and crossed over his tines, enjoying the free shot the C-119 had given him.

“Pretty sure talking to yourself is the first sign of senility.”

Cabbie’s scowl was met with further laughter.

* * *

Cabbie had once thought about having a few bitlets, no doubt running him ragged and biting at his landing gear but the dream was a well worn and comforting one. Except reality didn’t pan out that way. The core wants what it wants; and what Cabbie wanted, _he couldn’t have_. Then the years slipped on by, and while the world had changed, so had he. Probably said something about why ‘uncle’ and ‘papa’ got tossed around just outside of earshot and why he tended to pick up strays like radar blips.

He was hard pressed to find that last point a bad thing. He _liked_ being around other vehicles, he liked seeing them hale and whole and he especially liked it when they involved him in things, both trite and significant. Home was where and who you made it with.

No doubt behavioural psychologists would have an absolute field day with that. Something about an innate sociological drift for cargo planes to be paternal or something, stemming from the absolutely bizarre and murky ancestory that made up the genus that fixed wings belonged to.

At least counter evidence to the whole ‘sum of your inherited traits theory’ suggested that was bunk; Exhibit A was approaching the air strip in his fire-fighting livery, engine purring along like it hadn’t suffered a catastrophic failure a few weeks ago.

Cabbie made an annoyed face, good mood chased off by the implications of engine failure in a plane in their later teenage years. Pinecone, who had been stationed under his port wing, glanced up at him, concern in her eyes.

“Something wrong?”

The C-119 downgraded his scowl to his typical resting frown and flicked his left elevators slightly.

“Got a ‘Bug sucked into my intakes.”

“Gross.”

Cabbie humoured the tele-handler with a very-unprofessional raspberry, who stuck out her tongue in return before trundling off to where Dusty was taxiing down the runway.

* * *

Thankfully, the fire season was coming to a close: cooler temperatures and an increase in humidity meant less fires and the ones that did start tended to burn slower than ones fed dry fuel. Normally they’d have little need to call in additional fire fighters, but Blade had wanted the SEAT up for additional training and to see if he’d be willing to help seed some sections of the park. Ex-crop duster he may be, but Dusty _did_ have experience in the technique, which required a gentler touch than a water drop. 

Their Air Chief may have poked fun at Dusty’s ability to farm crops earlier in the season, mostly to get a rise out of him, but he’d clearly been quite skilled before he decided to stick it to the Maker and be a racer, fire fighter and all round adrenaline addict.

The Agusta Westland wasn’t fooling any of the senior staff however; he’d wanted to see how Dusty was faring as well. It was kind of sweet, really. Like tar pitch. Completely sappy and if Cabbie wasn’t in the exact same barge, he’d be needling Blade about it.

Maru didn’t have any hesitation in that regard, making sure to gesture quotation marks with his tines whenever Blade mentioned ‘training’.

_Cheeky little aft biscuit._

But the tug hadn’t stopped smiling either. Neither had Dipper, though she had scaled back the obsessive a fair bit, and she was due to head to the Bahamas for her wintering post. Completely co-incidental timing, for sure. The seaplane was a solid tanker and worker but the past few months had seen numerous fanatic distractions arise. Surprisingly, Dipper mentioned that fact herself and didn’t object _too_ much to the overlap of schedules.

Kind of serendipitous in Cabbie's case as well, given he wanted to check up..truthfully with Dusty and that had been slowly percolating in his mind. He only had thoughts and observations to make out a plan of attack and he’d held off sharing his concerns until he’d gone to the source, which means he’d need a reason to be off base with the light plane in tow.

“You need to gather the seeds before planting them.”

Windlifter spoke, in a completely serene and sincere tone from where the helicopter appeared behind him. Which meant Cabbie was entirely unprepared for it and startled badly, feeling like he’d nearly lapsed into engine failure. Pretty sure he’d actually bounced on his landing gear, which was near physically impossible for a cargo plane pushing near forty thousand pounds.

_Chrysler!_

Windlifter then trundled off without another word, leaving Cabbie tilted at an angle with his left ailerons flipped down in surprise.

He was getting too old for this slag.

* * *

Still, once he thought about it, Windlifter had made an excellent suggestion while he had been busy startling Cabbie into an early boneyard. He was due to make a supply run tomorrow and it would be easy enough to drum up a flimsy pretext for Dusty to come along. To be honest, damn near half of the shenanigans on base started with flimsy pretexts. But at least he hadn’t used up his credibility points so far and if nothing else, it was always nice to do a haul with a wingman, even one a good fifth your size.

Trick would be to do it without any passengers; mostly because potentially this could go from bad to ugly in three seconds flat if went south and reducing the number of vehicles involved would be ideal. It seemed kind of ridiculous how he was taxiing around the issue but he didn’t know how the topic of discussion would go down if he instigated it this time instead of Dusty.  
His experience had been with underage USAF recruits and that had ended... _badly_. 

There was a reason kids found themselves in these kinds of situations, that reason more often than not, a tragic one. 

Furthermore, it wouldn’t be him necessarily dealing with the fallout either. One thing to go airing your dirty filters, quite another to do it to someone else.

Well, send him to an aerie and call him done, he was officially being a den sire about it.

* * *

Grief was a funny old thing.

For starters, it came in as many shapes and sizes as there were vehicles. And it was never a one time thing; manifesting itself as guilt, for example. Anger. Or even recklessness. A gentle breeze, or a roaring gale.

Cabbie had weathered most squalls and come out the other side, wings still firmly in place, if not dented for the experience. He was hardly the only one on base who had; Blade had a hangars worth of grief crammed inside of him, and Maru wore it like an old, weathered coat of paint. Rest had as well, it took a certain....fortitude to keep coming back to this fight.

Thing about grief was, it was rarely dealt with on your own. Planes and most aircraft were social creatures and while the odd bird or two might be an anti-social jackass, most planes wanted and _needed_ the company of others. There was a reason airports tended to form around communities and not the other way around.

Same reason why some aircraft didn’t really cope all too well with death, near death and loss.

Not that Cabbie was _exactly_ a paragon of healthy coping mechanisms but hey, nobody was perfect. Thankfully, Blade was as wise as he was grumpy (perhaps stoic was a more polite term) and caught on what Cabbie was aiming for with tomorrow’s little excursion and didn’t ask too many questions. Afterwards, just giving the older aircraft one his patented looks before glancing over to the ‘spare’ hangar where they’d quartered Dusty. Blades rotors flicked in a quarter turn, making a faint humming sound.

”So, he’s grown on you too, huh?” Blade said, with his mouth twisted into a wry smile.

Cabbie snorted through his port intake. ”Yeah. Stuck like iron filings.”

Blade rolled his eyes at that, clicking two of his rotors together, a short non-verbal bark of laughter.

”So you _have_ gotten attached. That’s....adorable.”

Like the Helitanker could talk. Cabbie glared at Blade, to no effect whatsoever.

“Don’t twist my words into an atrocious pun, Chief. You can do better than that.”

Blades tail boom swayed gently in amusement, delighted with the chance to indulge in some harmless banter.

“It was such a wonderful set up for it. I wouldn’t turn my nose up at such an easy target.” Blades expression morphed into something more thoughtful.

“He feels guilt for what happened during the fire. Won’t talk to me about it. Out of fear or respect, suppose it doesn’t much matter at this point. Just got a bad feeling he’s teetering on an edge. Don’t want to see him fall.”

Blade sighed, and settled down on his landing gear. Any anger he’d been clinging to in the last year had evaporated and only left behind worry and concern. It was exhausting, like he was trying to build a dam out of mud and all his thoughts and fears kept sleeping past. Would have been easier to just block out everything again, but...well he’d be _damned_ he’d let another have a close call like that again. Every part of him ached, but it also filled him with warmth to draw closer to his team. Flock? Family? Was there really a word for it? At least, and most importantly, he wasn’t alone, he had good, solid friends he could rely on. Always had, just acknowledging it more and dwelling on who was missing less.

Cabbie settled down next to him, wingspan casting a shadow over the helicopter. The base was quiet this time of the evening; still a while until lights out but everyone was off the clock and enjoying their spare time. Well, mostly everyone, the two of them instead parked on the airstrip in thoughtful silence.

* * *

One thing that was absolutely predictable and entirely understandable about Dusty was he was an early riser. Past work experiences or some innate need to rise with the sun, meant that at least there was no issues with him waking up and getting started in hours most vehicles would call unreasonable. With minimal coffee. Probably a good thing at this point, he mused to himself, because firefighters had a lousy sense of taste when it came to hot beverages. Pretty certain coffee should not have the consistancy of congealed engine fluid.

Despite the unusual task Blade had assigned to him last night, Dusty was looking forward to it. He was aching to fly and stretch his wings for a good distance. One thing he didn’t get was why, specifically he’d been tapped for it. It wasn’t that he _disliked_ Cabbie or considered a supply run unimportant, it was more Dusty wondering how useful he’d be. Didn’t really have the carrying capacity or loading for that point, but maybe he was there as a spotter? Blade had been kind of vague about it, which really wasn’t like the chief at all.

He felt all hot and apprehensive, a feeling that had persisted since the crash in Augerin Canyon. Which in turn gnawed at him, feeling silly he was getting anxious about...nothing, really. Might as well get his tank topped up so he had something to occupy himself for the moment.

* * *

Being in the Air Force really did instill a vehicle with a need to have a running script or strategy for everything, from coffee to live combat. Thing was, it was rather notoriously tricky scripting a conversation with a plane you didn’t really know that well, mostly knowing something was _there_ but not visible. Cabbie knew he’d have to play it by sensor, but damn, if it wasn’t grating not having a clear path. Well he had one path he knew like the back of his landing gear. The one to the coffee pot. 

Hopefully Maru had made it this morning, instead of the ladies or any of the Smokejumpers. Coffee should taste like _coffee_ , not pumpkin spice, or chocolate or runny tar.

He’d concede that the thickness of said coffee was a personal thing. As in _personally_ coffee was at its best if it acted like a non-Newtonian fluid and you could stick a spoon upright in it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Windlifter makes a great straight....helo. I love his dead pan delivery of the coyote myth in the movie. Which I’m sure is utter _bunk_ he likes to trot out when he’s in the mood.
> 
> Did you know that tar pitch and coal tar actually tastes super sweet? It was the basis for saccharine when Constantin Fahlberg forgot to wash his hands and licked them. Hurray for bad laboratory hygiene. Author does not suggest or recommend you try it tho.
> 
> (So it’s not that weird to imagine vehicles liking the taste and actually being able to metabolise it.)


	3. In Tandem

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things go better than he’d hoped for but things are worse than he thought.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So the start of 2019 was both great and a dumpster fire in both respects so this story got put on the back burner while I sorted through stuff. I’m still sorting stuff out but it looks more like a garage sale than a trash pile. It’s a set up chapter but I hope you enjoy it.

Take off was uneventful after breakfast, Dusty enjoying the gentle tailwind and the missing drag of his temporarily benched pontoons. Maru had switched out his gear a few hours back; since his next lot of training and Piston Park duties didn’t require a feet wet landing or water scooping.

Not to mention his fuel consumption was just short of _atrocious_ with them on; despite how fun it was to splash down and bounce up and down with the motion of the water. Probably not as fun in the open sea with waves and hurricanes...

He’d leave that kind of activity to Dipper and planes more to her specifications. Dusty shivered at the half idle thought, half memory of being that low to the oceans surface. The light plane scowled at that, angry about how damned foolish he’d been and how the memory still stung and itched at his consciousness. 

His radio clicked and Dusty had to tweak his pitch a bit so he didn’t end up in a nosedive from surprise.

“Surely my wake isn’t _that_ bad?”

Cabbie’s tone was light, but the other plane had clearly caught his sour expression and Dusty near tripped over his tongue in haste to explain. 

“Uh..no! No of course not, I was uh...”

Steel Wool-gathering? Self incrimination? Mentally berating himself? All rather little, dumb things to go blabbing to someone far more experienced. Dusty was already embarrassed of his little panic he’d had weeks ago in front of Cabbie, wondering if the senior aircraft thought he was weak or childish. The idea of his disapproval _hurt_ ; he wanted to earn the respect of everyone he worked with. Not an easy task, given how difficult they were to get a bead on their personality. Windlifter, for example was about as clear as a dense winter fog when it came to guessing if he was joking or not. Dusty didn’t really know how to socialise, other than being as sincere as possible. 

Which sometimes tended to land him in hot water. Dusty’s face was dusted with embarrassment when he remembered Bulldog’s biting wit just before the Wings around the Globe rally had started. 

Then again, he’d stuck to that sincerity for the most part and it all worked out. 

For the most part; it was hard to forget the times he'd deviated from that course. They stuck in his mind, gnawing at his memory and discolouring the good with a layer of darkness and recrimination. He’d been awful to a lot of good people and apologies seemed to fall off his tongue like bitter solvent.

He wished he knew how to protect himself from the fear that lingered ever since he had woken up after crashing in Augerin Canyon.

* * *

That _was_ intended to be a light little jest, but Dusty seemed way too high strung, considering they were flying in a very loose formation. Kid seemed so tense you could use that tension in place of a good rubber band.

Hmm. 

This wasn’t getting off on the right gear, but Cabbie had his ways of getting through to nervous little fixed wings. With a grace that belied his age and size Cabbie banked to the left, amused that Dusty fell in line almost instantaneously. Too bad he was so light in frame, he’d fit right in with warbird drills or an acrobatic display squadron. Then again, that lack of weight would make the next part more _fun_.

Dusty overshot the mark a little bit, as Cabbie predicted he might, tugging him right into the feathery slipstream created by his twin tails. The little plane couldn’t suppress a whoop of surprise and joy at the sudden shift in pressure and current, rolling a half turn to make full use of the unique air space. Dusty then twisted off in an inverted roll, a Split-S any squadron trainee would be envious of, ending up directly alongside Cabbie’s starboard wing, putting them eye to eye and close enough to talk without needing the radio. Cabbie hadn’t missed the basic fighter pattern, more amused than anything else and it came though his tone of voice, cheeky and playful. 

“If we had another plane, you’d have made a pretty nice sandwich just now.’’

Hah. Dusty was just about giddy with praise; and well earned as well. Cabbie’s larger frame, along with the air displacement around him as a result would have made that roll a tricky one to pull off. 

The cargo plane dropped his pitch a bit in order to hang just below Dusty, an aeronautical equivalent of someone taller crouching down into a less imposing position. Well nothing for it, might as well address the proverbial White Guppy in the airspace.

“You doing alright, Dusty?”

* * *

Dusty was a bit confused at first, they’d gone from messing around with their flight pattern (and _wow_ Cabbie could turn with the best of them) to suddenly serious. Then it clicked. Oh, of course; the last time he’d strung a few words together with the senior aircraft, he’d been just fresh out of a coma and still itching with fresh welds and internal patches. He’d kind of hoped Cabbie had forgotten that. Clearly not. Guilt prodded at him and a thin thread of anger too. He was flying again, right? He had to be fine, others had bigger things to worry about than him!

Dusty stayed his tongue, as the last part of what Cabbie had said sunk in. Neither Cabbie, Blade or Maru addressed him via name that often, it was either his radio ID or Champ. It was, if anything, a gesture of respect, so the least he could do is not be flippant about his reply. Dusty gnawed on his lower lip, trying to gather his scattered thoughts. Should he talk about what was plaguing him? It didn’t seem right, to put himself first. What if he started being more selfish? He’d gotten a good, long glimpse at what the end result looked like with Ripslinger and he never wanted to be like that, where his needs pushed others to the side.

But on the other wing....

He felt like he was full to bursting with fear and pain. He felt like he had no idea how to get all that pressure out without destroying himself in the process. Each second crawled by, Dusty all too aware of those steely eyes watching him and nothing but wisps of clouds to hide behind.

“I...I don’t know.”

The answer slipped out, earnest truth wiggling it’s way past his indecisiveness. 

“I should feel good, right? Everything’s better now, I don’t know why _I’m_ not better now?’’

* * *

Cabbie had honestly expected Dusty to either deflect or to get obstinate with him. Didn’t expect that quiet confusion or the simple hurt that bled out in his voice. Cabbie’s core ached for him, empathy breaking through the brittle crust of cynicism that prevented him from rolling forward all those months ago.

“So how long have things... _not_ been better?” 

Dusty’s reply was a quiet whimper and a skip of gears as he throttled down. Cabbie listened intently for any signs of mechanical failure, shifting his central mass more directly under Dusty, concerned for his wellbeing, both physical and spiritual. The core may be an intangible concept at best but it was the crux of their being, their sentience and it could simply wither away or snap should enough pressure be applied.

“Since I woke up.”

“After Augerin Canyon?”

“No. After I drowned in the Pacific.”

* * *

The unexpected answer threw Cabbie for a loop, the level drone of his engines kicking up a notch. Took him a moment to piece together the timeline; he’d known vaguely about that infamous race, thanks to Dipper. Didn’t know he’d actually hit _water_ , only assuming he’d gotten dinged up in the heavy winds. His stint in the USAF had drilled into him the perils of crossing oceans, that water behaved more like concrete when travelling at speed.

The idea of it was terrifying, the story of a watery grave embedded deeply within the collective culture of planes and aircraft. It was the kind of thing you’d hear whispered about by bitlets and fledglings around a campfire. It wasn’t the kind of thing you flew away from. Physically or emotionally, and yet Dusty had done that. He’d flown again but seemed he hadn’t healed from it, not in the slightest. 

Cabbie’s mind scrambled for something to say, while he tried to desperately unpack a whole slew of information he wasn’t prepared for.

“You must have been frightened. I know..I’d be, in a situation like that.”

An easy admission for him to make. Strangely, Dusty was refusing to look at him after he’d uttered that, shame carved into his expression. Clearly, the C-119 was missing a few pieces to the puzzle.

“There’s more to it, isn’t?’’ 

He got a tiny nod as a response.

“Would you tell me about it?” 

_Have you told anyone about it?_

Dusty was beginning to weave like a trapped balsa warbler, almost ready to snap under the pressure. Cabbie maintained his heading and speed, but remained silent. Further prodding would get him nowhere, and risk the younger plane from splitting off their flight path, something he wanted to avoid at all costs.

His patience was rewarded, minutes later, when Dusty shifted his pitch down to look at the cargo plane, eyes squinted and glittery with unshed tears. The distance between them close enough that he could make out the desperate, quiet plea. 

“Can...can we wait until we land?”

Whether he was stalling for time or not, Cabbie couldn’t refuse a reasonable request like that. Give some time for the kid to gather his thoughts and bearings. _Ford_ knows he could use the time for that too.

“Yeah, that’s a good idea. Our ETA is about forty five minutes. Take your time, everything else will keep.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think I have some semblance of a plot in mind that occurred to me while marathoning mythbusters of all things. There’s a lot of intriguing aircraft stories between the pop rocks, science and explosions. (No it will not involve a chicken gun. Wait. Does that mean bird strike tests are carried out by dummy planes or do some truly nutty planes get thawed birds shot at their face? Oh my god. Nope, let’s not derail things further with jiggly world building details)


End file.
